


Sherlock and John, Where Have You Gone!

by merelypassingtime



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Gen, Humor, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6578482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock meet a group of mystery solving fans unexpectedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock and John, Where Have You Gone!

“Look, I am really sorry gentlemen but the reservation is for a room with a single king bed. That is the only room I have what with all the excitement here. We are completely booked.” The night clerk, whose name tag proclaimed her to be Mindy, smiled apologetically.  
  
“No! Absolutely not!” John exclaimed. “Every bloody time we get a hotel room it is always 'Oh- So sorry just one bed available.' Every. Single. Time. I am genuinely starting to think it is a conspiracy.”  
  
Mindy's customer service smile faded a bit at the outburst. “I am sorry, but the reservation specifically requests 'the most romantic room' that kind of means just one bed.”  
  
The thunderous look both men shot at her had her ducking down and typing industriously on her computer.  
  
“Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered darkly. “Look, John, it is really fine. I don't need to sleep.” That was something of a lie and they both knew it. After the seven hour flight from London and a seemly interminable drive along the winding coast roads to reach this isolated inn even the great Sherlock Holmes had been looking forward to some rest.  
  
“No. The whole point of coming all this way was so you could recover after that business with Dr. Agar.”  
  
Sherlock replied a bit petulantly, “I could have just as well rested in London.”  
  
“We are not going through this again.” John said determinately. “You are going to have a quiet, case free week here with several complete meals if I have to shoot every criminal in America to ensure it.”  
  
It was into this charged silence that Mindy cleared her throat. “I may be able to help you after all. We have one more group do to check in yet tonight, I could switch your room for one of their doubles. As late as it is we can just hope that they are not going to show tonight.”  
  
Because the universe is rarely so lazy and loves a straight line as much as the next guy, right then a bright green van pulled up underneath the hotel's awning. A small group including a large dog clambered out of the van and made their way into the lobby.  
  
“Are you the Blake group?” Mindy asked with resignation. One of the two girls in the group nodded assent.  
  
Mindy threw a quick and assessing look that Sherlock would have been proud of at the four teenagers, laughing and jostling one another, flicked her eyes briefly over the careworn and jet lagged Brits, and made a couple of rapid clicks on her computer. A printer under the counter started humming to life. “Thank you for your patience Mr. Holmes.” she smiled bright and insincere at John. “If you'll just sign these papers for me, we'll get you into that double queen-sized bed room.”  
  
John blinked at this turn of events but gamely stepped up to the counter knowing Sherlock would never be arsed to do anything as mundane as sign papers.  
  
At the name Holmes, the orange jumper clad girl of the group glanced up and stared at the lanky detective. “Jinkies! Not Sherlock Holmes? I am a huge fan of your website!”  
  
“Oh dear god.” Sherlock whispered under his breath. There were two ways this could go, likely she meant she read John's blog but...  
  
“That paper you did on tobacco ash really helped us crack the case of the Mysterious Mannequin.”  
  
Really, thought Sherlock, and I thought only Moriarty was reading my website. Aloud he said “Really? And I thought only Moriarty was reading my website.” Ah-well, verbal filters were for lesser intellects anyhow.  
  
“Moriarty! I read all about that. Hey Daphne, gang, come here! This is that guy I was telling you about, the one who can tell all sorts of stuff just by looking at you.”  
  
“Like what sort of stuff?” asked the blonde haired boy.  
  
John, always up for a good show, paused in the midst of initializing room forms to watch as Sherlock went into full on deduction mode.  
  
“So quick to step forward and take charge and such rigid posture, you fancy yourself the leader of this group. You are the rugby captain or whatever the equivalent sport is called over here at your school too. Blindingly white shirt, so crisp and fresh coupled with that frankly ridiculous ascot tells me that you are very image conscious. Too image conscious. So from a well off family but not that well off.  
  
“No, you," he focused next on the redhead in the purple dress, “You're the really old money here. The rooms are in your name, European designer dress, Italian leather shoes, all purposefully retro but still the height of fashion. Trying very hard not to be just another face in your debutante social circle. But your mother, now she did not come from money did she? No, you lack the distance and disdain of someone brought up by nannies, tutors, and boarding schools. After all, here you are with an extremely, one might say unbelievably, economically and socially diverse group of friends.  
  
“The most out of place being you.” The scraggy looking boy in the green shirt flinched noticeably. “Bloodshot eyes, slowed reflexes, stains from more then five different foods on your shirt, inappropriate giggles... Marijuana?”  
  
“Whoa, man. Who told you?”  
  
“Enough said.”  
  
“Finally we have you.” he said to the brunette. “Let us start with the way you are downplaying yourself and trying to be taken seriously by dressing years older than you are in that horrible orange jumper and those conservative, painfully sensible shoes.”  
  
“Hey!” interjected John. “There is nothing wrong with a nice, plain jumper!”  
  
“Oh, calm down John, I was not talking about your jumpers. Though the parallels are interesting. Nor do they end there.” Sherlock turned, addressing the girl directly again. “Observe the short skirt and carefully styled hair. They say you haven’t entirely given up on yourself yet. No, you are still dressing to impress. But who are you trying to win over? Someone from this group clearly. But not Captain All-American, he is not nearly brainy enough to interest you. Certainly not Mr. Dazed and Confused, it is clear his interests begin and end with Mary Jane. I'll leave out the dog to spare John's sensitive nature. That just leaves Ms. Blake here. This is reinforced by the fact you called her over first to gawk at me, and are standing a good foot within her socially accepted person space. Your outfit also subtlety mirrors hers in style and choice of accessories. Did you ask her to take you shopping in a ploy to be closer to her? Don't answer that. Your guilty face says it for you. All and all, I am betting that you at least will not be mad at having to share a one bed room tonight.”  
  
By this point, the girl was blushing a bright red that clashed horribly with her orange jumper.  
  
“Ruh-roh, Relma.” barked the group's large brown dog into the ensuing embarrassed hush.  
  
The silence continued for a beat before Sherlock asked in an uncharacteristically stunned voice, “Did your dog just talk?”  
  
“Yeah, he does that.” replied the marijuana enthusiast. “Usually though only we understand him. Well, us and the Harlem Globetrotters. Sometimes Don Knotts...”  
  
He was interrupted by Sherlock's quick question, “And does he help you solve crimes?”  
  
“Yeah, that is what we do, we drive around in our van and solve mysteries. How did you...”  
  
But again he was cut off by an exclamation from the detective, “Oh my God! Just like Redbeard! But Mummy and Mycroft said that wasn't possible...” He trailed off and looked blankly into space.  
  
Awkward silence descended again as the four teens stared at the slightly twitching man before them.  
  
John, recognizing his cue, stepped forward into the conversational lull. “Don't worry about him, he may be gone for awhile.” The teens turned their stares on him. He coughed a bit and continued, “So you guys solve mysteries?”  
  
“That is right,” answered the blonde group leader. “We just solved the case of the Ghostly Grade School, so we thought we would come and investigate this place. There have been a lot of sightings of a glowing woman dressed all in white. They are calling this the Haunted Hotel! We think some is trying to scare off guests, maybe there is an undiscovered gold mine under the hotel or something.”  
  
“Oh, don't be absurd.” Sherlock rejoined the conversation, “That is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard, and I have spent time listening to Anderson's conspiracy theories on my death. It is painfully clear that the night desk clerk there is using this ghost business to increase bookings and cover the covert exchanges of classified information that are her real source of income. Look at that phone and high end laptop, way too expensive for a menial worker. Besides, the laptop is broadcasting a complexly encrypted wifi network underneath the normal free wifi. Combined with the inordinate number of identical and innocuously wrapped packages in the mail pigeonholes I'd say this is espionage. That is is governmental in nature is proved by the profusion of nondescript, bullet proof black cars in the parking lot and by the fact Mycroft booked us in this hotel.”  
  
This monologue was broken as Mindy made a break around the reception desk and towards the lobby doors. In the process she knocked down the orange jumpered girl, who immediately started crying out “My glasses! I can't see without my glasses!”  
  
Luckily John's reflexes were better and he was more than a match for Mindy in her heels. He took her down handily after only a few steps and pinned her to the ground, front to the floor, hands behind her, one knee resting in the middle of her back. “Would one of you mind dialing the police?” He asked politely.  
  
“But she isn't wearing a mask.” the blonde boy answered, apropos of nothing.  
  
“So?” asked Sherlock. “The mask and outfit are right there in her bag. There is enough luminous paint smeared on the outside for that bag to glow like a rabbit. And the white fabric is caught visibly in the zipper.”  
  
“But, you don't understand,” The shaggy-haired pothead said. “We have to chase the ghost while listening to an upbeat pop song. Then we are going to build an elaborate trap that Scooby,” here he pointed at the dog, “will accidentally set off early. But through blind luck we will still catch the ghost. Then we call the cops and when they get here we have to take a mask off. That is the way it is suppose to go.” The other teens nodded as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “You are saying your dog actually hinders your crime solving efforts? So Not really like Redbeard at all.”  
  
The group of young mystery solvers continued to look dazed. Hesitantly the redhead offered “But we brought roller skates for the trap this time.”  
  
“Has the American education system really fallen so far? I can use smaller words if it would help.” Sherlock began to enunciate slowly, “What is the number for the police?”  
  
“911,” Mindy provided from the floor.  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, dialing the number. Absently he also kicked a pair of thick framed glasses toward the girl still crawling on the floor calling for them.  
  
After that things ran pretty smoothly. The comedic and bumbling sheriff was less then helpful, but a discrete text to Mycroft had a small army of black suited, earpiece wearing, extremely competent people checking rooms and questioning Mindy. There had been a bad moment when the blonde boy seemed to crack, fell on Mindy and tried to rip her face off while screaming about 'meddling kids' and 'getting away with it.' Sherlock attributed it to a bad trip caused by something called a Scooby Snack.  
  
Sherlock was just finishing up explaining about the rooms coded in the pigeonholes to an Agent Johnson when a young girl came up to him.  
  
“Excuse me, but are you Sherlock Holmes? Because my name is Nancy Drew, and I am your biggest fan!”  
  
A look of horror flitted across Sherlock's face before his whole posture changed. He slouched in on himself, and set his face to a soft and bemused expression before answering in a flawless American accent, “Who? I don't know what you are talking about.”  
  
The End


End file.
